At 15 years old, you’d rather set your hair on fire than spend one minute talking with your parents about sex or anything remotely resembling the topic of ‘relations’ as grandmother used to call it.

Girls of my generation didn’t have to fear that the topic would arise at impromptu times, or at all for that matter. We were more likely to have an educational pamphlet strategically left on a bedroom dresser for our private discovery. Translation – ‘We shall never speak of such things with each other. Good luck.’

Sexuality was and is a taboo subject that makes for the most squirm-worthy encounters between parent and child. Much to my youngest daughter’s mortification, it is my parental mission to demystify the topic.

Our conversations began harmlessly enough when said 15 year old acquired a boyfriend.

“If you’re old enough to be in a relationship, you’re old enough to talk about it.” I told her.

Benign topics were introduced first with the utmost care to lure my daughter into the safe space of my good intentions. We, or mostly I, talked about respect, companionship, loving yourself….all the ingredients of basic attraction. When it came to the conversation titled ‘What makes a girl a slut?’ poor Peach couldn’t escape the conversation fast enough.

At family dinner, Peach’s older sister – having survived her own version of ‘the talks’ years prior – mercilessly opened the can of worms.

“I heard you cornered Peach in the car today.”

Silence.

Husband, unsuspecting soul, took the bait and asked why. Giggles from one side of the table met with groans from the other as sisters anticipated what would follow.

“Don’t,” Peach begged.

Sorry sweetheart, I must. How could I live with myself as a parent if I failed to enlighten my girl and prepare her for all that lay ahead?

“Sex,” I blurted out. “We’re talking about sex.”

Varying degrees of regretful reaction erupted around the table, abruptly ending dinner and sending Peach off to hide, again. Now that the ‘talks’ had been exposed to the masses, there was no sensible option other than full-on assault. It was open season on the Birds and the Bees.

Husband cued up his bluetooth speaker with the song Let’s Talk About Sex and blared it throughout the house, effectively reaching any hiding space in which Peach sought refuge. A song became a sing-a-long which became a dance party which ended with the ‘adultish’ family members in a fit of maniacal laughter.

We had abused the topic of sex with a level of extreme irreverence, hoping to push a reluctant teen past her squeamish barrier. Only the tiniest bit of guilt washed over me. I might have been inclined to doubt our guerrilla tactics if Peach had shown signs of PTSD. But in character with the resilient third child, she emerged intact without any mortal wounds to her psyche.

We all bear battle scars from adolescence. I’d rather have my child wounded by information than by ignorance. Besides, what fun would it be if she didn’t have a horrifying story to share with her own children someday?

They say that if you love something you must let it go.If it loves you in return, it will come back to you.I didn’t realize that I was counting on this when I sent my daughter off to college 4 years ago.

In theory, I had launched her into the world and was glad of it.But I failed to see the strand of hope that tethered me to her like the string on a kite soaring out of reach.

When my daughter announced that upon graduation she would travel 8000 miles away to teach in a third world country, the tension on the line that connects us tightened, begging me to release my remaining grip.

I indulged in sadness just once, crying briefly, then it was done.I had never been so forlorn about something that I endorse 100%.But history has taught me that my fears are poor predictors of reality, and that time spent on worry is always wasted.

It seems like yesterday that I left a teen daughter trembling at the entrance to Girls’ Leadership camp – a place she hesitantly agreed to attend for the summer preceding High School.My homespun girl needed to build courage and independence in adolescence.It was my job to help her find it, not to wait for a time when she felt ready.

As maturity set in for her, I ceased having to push her off the platform of certainty. Our roles reversed and it was I who felt reluctant about my daughter’s ever-expanding adventures.Like tearing apart velcro, I could feel the ripping each time she ventured farther into the big wide world. The beauty of velcro is that it can be joined and separated over and over and remain just as strong.

In time, I realized that I wasn’t losing a child to the world.Rather, I’d gained a scout through whom I would experience places and people I wouldn’t otherwise encounter. I would see life through my daughter’s eyes and share in her world no matter the miles between us.

I used to believe the adage that parents give their children wings to fly.In truth, children are born with wings and the instinct to use them.Flying isn’t taught but allowed.We can give nothing more than freedom.

When the fear of flight rises, it may take all the determination one can muster to release the restraints that bind us, and our loved ones, to the ground.It’s not until we truly let go that we can enjoy the reward in soaring.

Parenting is a noble prospect, rife with opportunity for personal growth.As we raise a child, we raise ourselves.Our mission, if we accept it, prompts us to evolve into far greater beings than we ever imagined, or wanted to be.

Unconditional love insists that we surrender our parental fears in order to fulfill a commitment to those who follow our lead.When we cooperate, we find that life has a way of unfolding in the most natural and perfect way.

Despite inherent uncertainty, there is peace waiting for us.We have only to release our grip on what we think we know in order to see life smiling at us and saying, “Trust me.I’ve got this.”

College children will be returning home next month and frankly, I’m more than a little bit nervous.

With only one child left at home, I’ve become re-acquainted with the pleasures of order and cleanliness.

I would be the first to tell you that I love the chaos of family life.There’s a feeling of purpose and satisfaction in the work of managing a household full of the dilemmas and disasters that accompany a clan of children.And some of the funniest blunders occur when our household spins out of control.

But I’m not a glutton for punishment, and I’ve tasted the sweetness of post-parental peace.I’m an entirely different person when I’m not overrun by a full house.I’m kinder, more patient, generous, and thoughtful.I call friends and my own parents more frequently.And I relax, guilt-free!Sometimes I even sleep late.

It’s glorious, this return to self.It’s as if I’ve woken from a dream – a very full and joyous one – and found myself standing in my own shoes again.There’s a vagueness about me, like the stupor one has upon waking, and it’s going to take some time to understand and appreciate it all.

At present, I’m facing two inbound teens who are recognizable but so very different from thetentative pair that packed up their lives 9 months ago.They’ve had the chance to exert their independence in a variety of new, sometimes challenging, situations and they radiate confidence.

One would be labeled a fool for assuming that these young adults would morph back into the habit of obedience that preceded their college experience. The over-18’s have been in the big wide world playing adult, sort of, but not really. Now they will appear at my doorstep with selective amnesia and forget at least some of the rules all of the time.

In an attempt to preserve my sanity this summer, I’ve decided to resurrect the idea of a family contract.This time, the language is more formal, like the leases my college children each signed for their apartments next year.

I’m not aiming to make our home an unappealing place with rules so strict that big teens/young adults feel stifled.And I’m certainly not interested in playing corrections officer.I’m simply looking to create enough order and peace so that none of us feel the need to fight or flee.

This contract may not be welcomed.And I won’t win any awards for the most popular parent.But if all goes well, perhaps my children will see and appreciate the new, steadier version of me – the one without the bags under her eyes, calming sipping a cup of tea on a lazy Saturday afternoon.The one who is likely to dole out more yes’s than no’s when her house and her life aren’t turned upside down.

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Re-entry Contract

By signing this lease you hereby agree to the rules set forth herein which outline a basic code of conduct for the household.This contract is binding.Any violation of it will result in corrective measures including loss of amenities and forfeiture of personal items.Expenses may be incurred.

1. RESPECT

Common spaces are sacred. They should be uncluttered and clean when not in use.

No dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink.

No articles of clothing dropped on tables, chairs or floor.

No random paraphernalia scattered on counters.

2. CONTRIBUTE

Each resident is expected to contribute to the work of the household. Chores are done by all, for all.

If you eat/sleep in this house, you are expected to help with food shopping, prep, and cleaning.

Like this:

They say you shouldn’t bring a knife to a gun fight. But if you don’t realize that teen son is packing heat, you arrive unprepared and end up getting shot.

I knew that Beagle wouldn’t welcome the punishment I was prepared to dole out, despite the fact that he was undeniably guilty. I expected recoil. But I upped the ante when, moments before our showdown, I unveiled an unrelated infraction for which I decided to deliver a stern lecture. Tacking this layer onto my agenda was a bad idea.

My carefully prepared speech went out the window with my civility and before I knew it, shots were fired. Accusations and judgments were flying back and forth with escalated voices. It was a verbal brawl of mammoth proportions – the kind in which things are said that have never surfaced before. Unspoken judgments on another’s essential character and personality, that when revealed, can cause irreparable damage.

Somewhere between “you’re the worst mother ever” and “I can’t do anything to please you” Beagle drew his weapon and shot me directly in the chest. “I HATE YOU!!!!!” he declared. My body recoiled from the impact. I might have slumped to the ground had I not been leaning against a table. The fire in my beloved son’s eyes, the stone-cold look on his face….he meant it. And it hurt. Really bad.

Fighting back tears with dwindling resolve, I squeaked out one last explanation. “Parents yell when they’re afraid. Im afraid for you. That’s all it is.”

I’m afraid that my son will become an addict. I’m afraid that he’ll die in a car accident, impregnate a girl, flunk out of school, or, heaven forbid, forget to say please and thank you. Seriously, the scope of my parental concerns is deep. Mostly, the fear is wrapped up neatly in a rationale mind. But when unleashed, it runs wild, creating a storm of discontent for everyone.

Husband tried patching my wound with positive affirmations and a reminder that rebelling is part of the natural course when a child pulls away from the family. Agreed, but do they have to shoot you to make sure you don’t follow?

Early the next morning I drove to a yoga class where I fantasized that I’d find the Buddha himself handing out peace on a platter. Instead I found Joe, a fellow yogi, who happened to be waxing on about the wonderful relationship he had with his grown son. I muttered something about my own sad state of affairs, expecting him not to understand. He must be one of those lucky parents who got a rare unicorn in the form of a trouble-less child.

Dearest Joe rolled his eyes and groaned as he recalled his own experience of parenting teens. “There was a LOT of screaming.” this mild-mannered man revealed. “It was hell.”

Hope coursed through me. Joe and his son were living proof that the wounds inflicted from teendom can heal.

I’d be the first to tell the mother of a rambunctious toddler, “Don’t worry. It’s all a phase. Ride the waves.” But in this tsunami of teen parenting, I can’t even find my surf board most of the time, never mind ‘ride the wave.’

Beagle and I are recovering from our assault on each other. There’s lots of tiptoeing around and polite exchange of pleasantries. Soon, I expect, we will overcompensate with kindness in the way of apology. Eventually the wounds will close but they will, no doubt, leave a scar. How can they not? Silly, hurtful humans.

Friend reminds me of a time in the recent past when Beagle headed off to a sketchy situation with some knowledge of the inherent danger. He ran out the door with his back to my well-wishes and cautionary words. Ten seconds later he reappeared through half-opened door to say, “Mom, if I die today I just want you to know – you did a good job.” And then he was gone.

I will take that little gem now and hold it to my heart. Evidence that love is real. No matter how ugly we get on the outside, we still cherish each other on the inside – where it matters most.

A friend who is ahead of me in the parenting timeline predicted that my first-born would return from college with a grateful heart. The distance from home and family would create the necessary space for a paradigm shift. And so it happened in the form of a letter.

‘Dear Fam,’ it began. ‘I never realized….’

Principessa, overflowing with new-found insight, detailed aspects of our family values, traditions, and relationships like a seasoned philosopher. She thanked us for our support and expressed pride in our family. I was humbled by the sentiment. But the real reward was a section on self-reflection in which Prinicipessa’s blossoming confidence shined through.

She listed an inventory of attributes that have served her well in her first semester at college – her ‘toolkit’ she called it. It included communication skills, resilience, self-worth, humility, responsibility, hopefulness and faith – all of which she attributed to parenting skills.

When I recovered my tear-soaked eyesight, I breathed a sigh that I might have been holding onto for 18 years. Since the onset of motherhood I wondered if I was doing parenting ‘right.’ Even with the knowledge that right and perfect don’t exist, I longed for reassurance that my choices would, at the very least, have a net positive effect.

I’m still on the parenting highway with a long way to go. But this brief return of a college-aged daughter has been like a rest stop with a scenic vista. A chance to get out and stretch my weary self, breathe in the big picture, and offer gratitude for the journey.

I look back on the road we’ve travelled and wonder how we arrived safely at this point. Husband and I knew we wanted to take this family trip through life, but let’s face it, we had no idea where we were headed or how to get there. None of us do. We hop on board with the vaguest idea of what parenting has to offer.

Taking stock from this spot, I realize that this is for the best. No human can trump the trip-planning skills of life. We can prep and plan but life will take us off-road through adventures we never dreamed of.

Like a good geocacher who has found a treasure, before I leave this resting place, I will offer these nuggets of observation for those who trail me in time and space, in hopes that it will ease their journey.

It’s all going to be okay. This is not to be confused with ‘nothing bad will ever happen.’ Trials will arise and roads will be blocked. Each is an invitation. You will either find your way around them or you will crash mightily. Either way, life will go on and so will you. Find comfort in that.

The fact that you don’t know where you’re going doesn’t mean you won’t arrive. Just follow the signs and dare to explore. You have what it takes. I promise.

Love really does conquer all. At the end of the trip, love is all that matters. Loving each other, loving the self, and loving life is the hardest, simplest, and most valuable aspiration in the world. Return to it as many times as you stray from it and it will welcome you home.

Life beckons me to return to the reality of the road where I likely will lose sight of this sweet perspective, at least temporarily. Letters of reassurance from grateful children may be far and few between. Rough travel is bound to surface and challenge my bolstered confidence in parenting. But having reached this point, I can say with certainty that the view is worth the struggle. Stop and enjoy it when you get the chance.

My sister-in-law questioned my sincerity when I texted that I was having fun moving my eldest daughter into college for the first time. All bets were on me coming apart at the seams.

I had given ample indication of emotional fragility in preparation for this momentous occasion. In the weeks following high school graduation, a song on the radio, a memory jogged while driving past a playground…anything, or nothing, could turn me to mush instantaneously. The world conspired against me, it seemed. How else to explain the untimely (or timely) arrival of an email from a photo-sharing site titled, ‘Your life 7 years ago’ which showed images of my college Freshman in elementary school. Cruelty, I say.

The fact that college move-in day landed on my birthday heightened my self-pity. ‘Worst birthday present ever,’ I grumbled. But my conscience was having none of it. Just days before, I was informed of a local high school graduate who had died in an accident. His mother, I realized, wouldn’t be able to transition her son to the next phase of life. In solidarity with this mother, I vowed to enjoy the privilege before me.

Kahlil Gibran says that children never belong to us. They only come through us. I’ve had to remind myself of this countless times in my parenting history. The urge to hold onto the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me is, at times, intense. But as the wise Dory says in Finding Nemo, “If you don’t let anything happen to ‘em, nothing will ever happen. No fun for Nemo.”

I have sent away a girl of eighteen years who, in my heart, might as well be four again; for the way I felt in separating from her was no less shocking. Dear ones have been asking how I’m doing. Impossible to answer. I’m ‘doing’ every emotion known to humanity, and have yet to land on a description that encapsulates the sensation of launching a beloved child.

My heart reaches out to every parent I crossed paths with on campus – the mother struggling to hold herself together, the parents at the pub drowning their stress, and the fathers – more than one – who were victimized by a phenomenon that Husband dubbed, ‘Dad-Shaming.’ Students, succumbing to the frenzy of the occasion, would periodically scream at their well-meaning fathers in public. “Dad! I know that! Let me do it! Leave me alone!!!!!”

In the next several years, these college students will morph into young adults. When they return, we will have to get acquainted with them all over again, leaving space for the child-cum-stranger whose tastes and manners may be grossly unfamiliar.

Meanwhile, we will be learning a new parenting style, conducted from afar and constructed on a whole new set of rules. We will love from a distance, always hoping, but never quite knowing, if it will be enough. We will worry and encourage and pray our way through it. And at the end of the college experience, we will wonder, as we do now, how did it go so fast?

You are about to receive a gift. We call her Principessa and she is my daughter. To you, she is just a statistic – one set of criteria that met with approval for acceptance into your esteemed institution.

Principessa will be leaving all that she knows to join you several hundred miles from home. She will be on her own for the first time. I don’t expect you to parent her or to take over for me in my absence. But I do expect you to provide her with what she needs to survive and to thrive over the next several years.

I hope you fulfill the promises you made when you wooed her into your fold – a solid education that will lead to job prospects, a safe environment, and ample diversity and opportunities to stimulate her personal growth.

This seems like the least I can ask for my financial investment. Which, by the way, is significantly higher than many of her fellow classmates. For instance, the athlete with the coveted ‘full boat.’ Apparently his physical skills are more highly valued than my daughter’s passion and talent for nurturing children and her long-standing desire to become a teacher.

My husband and I will pay an inflated sticker price for the reward of our daughter’s college education. To say that I’m not bitter or worried about the ability to afford this would be a lie. But I’m willing to bury my negativity in exchange for her ultimate success and happiness.

University, you have no idea how special my daughter is to me. And I get the feeling that you probably don’t care – except for caring that she reflects well on your reputation. Don’t worry, she’ll do you proud, just as she has done for us all these years.

Principessa is one in 17,000 to you, but she is one of a kind to us, her family. Please be good to her. She deserves the best you have to offer.